


Are you ready?

by taylorann14



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, Sherlock - Freeform, Slow Burn, WIP, hairdresser au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-07 05:38:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5445245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylorann14/pseuds/taylorann14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You know what they say about a client who comes back to you? In the hairdressing business?<br/>They're a forever client."<br/>(in which John Watson is Sherlock Holmes' hairdresser)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something New

**Author's Note:**

> buckle up kids.  
> this is gonna be a long ride.
> 
> i'd like to thank anotherwellkeptsecret (Kelley on tumblr hello sweet angel, bless your soul) for the GREATEST AU OF ALL TIME.

It was simply unacceptable. His hairdresser was not just unavailable for the week he needed his hair cut, she was unavailable indefinitely. And because she was having a _baby_. She was quitting her job because she had decided, with her husband, to bring life into this world, and now Sherlock Holmes had to find a new hairdresser. Terribly inconvenient.

There were not many people throughout his life he had trusted to even come near his hair. His current— well…. now _previous_ — hairdresser had been the one he’d gone to consistently for 6 years now, and the fact that he had to find another was exceedingly frustrating. Even she had been simply tolerable, he'd yet to find someone who could meet his standards. When he’d called to change his appointment and was informed that she would no longer be continuing her services, he reduced the receptionist to tears and promptly hung up the phone and sulked on the couch for an appropriate three hours.  
He didn’t get up to answer the door when there was a knock— though that behavior was hardly unusual for him, it was so tedious dealing with people. Whoever was at the door was obviously insistent, however, as the knocking continued for several minutes. He sighed, picking himself up off the couch and tying his dressing gown closed around his waist. Opening the door with an annoyed expression, he glared at the Detective Inspector, “What do you want?”  
“Didn’t have your morning tea did you?” Lestrade assumed, letting himself inside.  
“I did, actually,” Sherlock said in a clipped tone.  
“What’s got your goat then?”  
“What do you want?” he asked again.  
Lestrade seemed impervious to the man’s treating glare as he moseyed around the lounge as if walking in unannounced was a common and accepted occurance. “I have a case.”  
“I don’t want it. Leave now.” Sherlock said, taking back his position on the couch.  
“It’s a missing person and—  
“Boring.” Sherlock interrupted.  
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say!”  
“I don’t care” he sighed.  
“You seem more irritable than usual."  
“My hairdresser quit." He wasn't sure why he said it, but the words were out of his mouth and there wasn't much he could do about it.  
“Had enough of you, has she?” he joked.  
“No. She’s leaving the field to take care of her child.”   
“Well good for her.” Lestrade smiled wistfully and Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
“And what about me?" Sherlock asked, arms folded over his chest. He stared at the ceiling, angrily wishing that she hadn't picked a child over her profession.  
“Just find another hairdresser?” Lestrade offered with a shrug.  
Ludicrous. “As if it’s that simple!” Sherlock cried.  
“Well, just call the salon and ask for their next best person."  
Sherlock scoffed “Are you leaving now?”  
“Get yourself sorted. I need you in on this."  
“Of course you do, your team is incompetent."  
" _Sherlock_." he sighed.  
"I will call them if you leave right now."   
“Fine, but I’m calling you later." Lestrade said, walking towards the door.  
"I won't answer!" Sherlock called after him just before the door closed. 

It took him a few minutes, but he picked up the phone. He needed his haircut next week, and he was going to have to find someone eventually. A different receptionist answered and he asked her a series of different questions about the stylists working there.  
“Look, if you come in, you can talk to whoever you make your appointment with. I can’t give you their personal information,” she explained.  
Sherlock hung up the phone with a frustrated huff and stood up to get dressed.  
People were so.. dull.


	2. I'm John Watson and I'll be cutting your hair today.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (because you're insufferable and no one else will deal with you so I'm going to give you the best damn haircut you ever had.)
> 
> Sherlock meets John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have credited Kelley for this AU last night but I posted it at 2 am and I was sleepy as heck. ANYWAY.  
> This fic will be stupidly long probably and i'm really excited to write it and I already have a story mapped out so HELLO EVERYONE <3 
> 
> Welcome, welcome. I hope you enjoy.

With a flourish of his coat, he entered the hair salon as if he was the lead in a play, making his first entrance on stage. Not particularly different from how he entered any room. Everyone seemed to turn to take notice.  
Upon a quick scan of the room, he figured the woman he spoke with on the phone was the same one sitting at the desk because she was looking at him as if she hoped it was anyone else standing in front of her. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, I called earlier.”  
“Yes, sir, how can I help you today?” she asked with a fake smile plastered on her face.  
“I would like to speak with the most talented employees in the salon.”  
“As I explained on the phone, the stylists here all rent out their own spaces, I just book the appointments for them. They all have their own strengths and specialties, but are all equally qualified to cut hair.”  
“Fine, just book me for next week with whoever you have available. Preferably Monday afternoon.”  
“Alright, sir—“  
“Someone who is NOT completely useless,” he said quickly.  
The woman nodded tiredly, “We had a cancelation today with one of our stylists, would you prefer to take that appointment?”  
“Alright.” he said. He may as well just get it over with as there was no way he could find someone else right away. His hair was getting to that point on his neck that it was beginning to become a distraction and despite whether he liked it or not, it needed to be cut as soon as possible.  
“Would you like water or anything while you wait?” she asked.  
“No.”  
He sat and looked around the room again briefly. No one who was currently working would be adequate, why would anyone else they had on staff be? He considered just walking out, but that feeling of the hair tickling the back of his neck was infuriating, driving him absolutely mad with every second. If he didn’t care so much about how it looked, he would have cut it himself, but it had to be even. It had to look perfect.  
He flipped carelessly through the case file Lestrade had left on his kitchen table until his name was called and he followed a woman called Hilda back to her station. She affixed the cape around his neck as she introduced herself and asked what he would need done.  
He explained, in detail, what he wanted and the woman nodded with a bright smile, “Yes, we can definitely do that.”  
“Are you certain?” he asked, “It must be done exactly as I told you.”  
She let out a laugh more obnoxious than her smile. “I am a professional, I understand.”  
She looked at him through the mirror and began running her fingers through his hair haphazardly tugging it every which way, checking the length and getting a vision of what she would be doing. “I don’t want to change the style,” he reminded her, “just a bit of length off.”  
She nodded, taking the bottle and spraying his hair down, coming through it in sections.  
“You’re not separating it right,” he said.  
“Sorry?”  
He huffed, “It needs to be taken in different sections or it will be uneven."  
“You can trust my abilities,” she smiled.  
“How am I to know that?”  
“What?”  
“Well earlier you were telling your coworker that you missed dinner last night because you were taking care of your cat, but you don’t even have a cat--unless that's some nickname for your ex-boyfriend. How would I know if you're telling the truth?”  
She lowered her voice, “How do you know that?” she hissed.  
“i observe. And I also know that you are not sectioning the hair properly. It’s going to be longer in the middle if you separate it like that.”  
“is everything alright?” a voice came from behind them.  
Sherlock adjusted his gaze to see a man, average height medium build, with sandy blond hair, standing behind the pair of them.  
“  
She’s incompetent,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
“He’s impossible,” she spat, walking away.  
“Well what seems to be the problem?” the man asked.  
Sherlock just stared, “As if you could help.”  
“You’d be surprised,” he chuckled, “I’ve been doing hair for many years.” he said with a smile, “I heard what you want and you’re right, she’s rubbish. She doesn’t have the sections separated right for what you want.”  
Sherlock perked up a bit, “Yes, that’s what I told her.”  
“Well, I just finished up with a client a bit early, would you like to come to my chair?" he asked.  
Sherlock hesitated. He was sure this man would be equally as unqualified, but it couldn’t hurt to try. Absently, he rubbed at the back of his neck, “I suppose.”  
He followed him over and took a seat, the man fixing a new cape around his neck and coming around the front to look at him, rather than talking to him through the mirror.  
“I’m John, by the way. John Watson. i didn’t catch your name.” he extended a hand.  
He shook it, “Sherlock Holmes.” he said.  
“So, Mr. Holmes. You keep the style the same, you said, right?” John asked.  
“Sherlock. And yes I don’t change it much.”  
“So you just want some length off?”  
“A trim. I want it bit shorter on the sides and some more texture through the top. I prefer the sides to be point cut and the texturizing done with a razor. And I ask that you refrain from using clippers, I prefer the look of scissors over comb. The blending turns out better.”  
“I can do that. Is there anything else?” John asked.  
Sherlock was being his usual insufferable self and John was being patient and actually listening to him. He shifted in his seat a bit, “Just be careful, my scalp can be sensitive."  
“Of course. You ready to start?” he asked.  
When Sherlock nodded, John nodded back, walking back behind him and running his hands through Sherlock's hair. “You have gorgeous hair,” he said, gently moving the hair around and examining the length. “What kind of conditioner are you using right now?” he asked, mussing the curls at the nape of his neck.  
"Uh, I’m using Paul Mitchell right now. The original.”  
“Good, good. The shampoo, too?”  
“Yes."  
He nodded, “Alright if you would follow me, we can get your hair shampooed before we cut it.”  
Sherlock followed noiselessly and got himself situated in the chair.  
“How do you like the water? Warm or hot?”  
“Hot.” sherlock answered, leaning his head back into the bowl.  
As the water heated up, John asked, “Do you mind if I try a new shampoo on you?”  
“Alright,” Sherlock said.  
John smirked and when he got the product in his hands, the overwhelming scent of mint filled the air and he began to gently massage the shampoo into his hair.  
Sherlock's senses were being overloaded. The smell of mint was refreshing, but the tinge of lavender was relaxing. Snd there was not a word he could find adequate enough in the english language to explain how John's hands felt against his scalp. His touch wasn’t too rough, but the pressure was enough to make his scalp tingle along with the sensation from the shampoo. Sherlock let out an involuntary gasp as John rubbed circles at the base of his neck.  
“You okay?” John asked.  
Sherlock nodded and John continued his massage; Sherlock had to concentrate on not making any sounds.  
He focused on the case file he’d been looking through before and as useless as it seemed at first glance, he wondered if maybe there was something there.  
He was pulled from his thoughts as John tugged at the curls in the back, rinsing through them thoroughly. This man was unreal. He had rough hands-- a soldier's hands, he knew.. But this was soft, careful. Wonderful. Amazing. Sherlock closed his eyes and attempted to seem composed, but he was lost again in the sensation of John’s hands making patterns on his skull in ways he was unsure of how to describe. He filed that moment away in his head to save for later, because he couldn’t remember a time where he’d been this relaxed.  
The water hit his head again, John rinsed, conditioned, and rinsed again and it was over. Sherlock found himself extremely disappointed, because that wasn’t nearly long enough. When he glanced at the clock, however, he realized a full 10 minutes had passed. His usually racing mind calmed down for long enough that he lost track of time; typically he only lost track of time because his thoughts were all over the place.  
“You alright?” John asked.  
“Hm? Yes. Fine, thank you.” he said, meaning to sound rude, but his voice was softer and farther away than it should have been.  
“Let’s get back, then,” he nodded towards his station and Sherlock sat back down.  
“Was it Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked as John rifled through the various tools he had on hand.  
“Afghanistan, I’ve only been back for about— wait." John turned to him and quirked his head, "How did you know that?”  
“Obvious.” he said.  
“Enlighten me.” john challenged with crossed arms.  
He sat up a smidge straighter, “There's the way you walk, the way you had your hands clasped behind your back when you first spoke to me… that is, of course, if we’re ignoring the most obvious clue. I can see the chain from your dog tags behind the collar of your shirt,” he shrugged.  
John looked at him, “You're quite observant….”  
Sherlock didn’t break eye contact, “The receptionist, Jane, is newly pregnant and isn’t sure what she wants to do about it, she is going to tell her boyfriend today. The first imbecile who tried to cut my hair is going through a divorce. Nasty one at that, he cheated and she still loves him. It's a pity. He just called her and I suspect she’s crying in the back room now because of it. The client with the red hair to your left and behind, is actually homeless and will not be able to pay for her services today, but oh that’s fine, don’t kick her out because you can put the cost of her service on my card.”  
John just blinked at him, “Incredible.”  
incredible? that was… new.  
“That was absolutely amazing. How did you know all that?” John asked  
“I watch and Iisten.”  
“well. Mr. I-Spy. Let’s get started with that haircut then.”  
Wasting no time, John began carefully combing through his hair and with a snip of his shears, the haircut began.  
Sherlock sat as still as a board, “So Mr. Watson, when exactly did they send you back from the army?”  
“It’s Doctor Watson or I’d rather you just call me John,” he said without missing a beat. “Ive been back for just a few months. Can’t afford London on an army pension though, gotta make money somehow… so here I am.”  
“You put yourself through medical school by doing hair after university,” he guesed.  
“Precisely.” John said, expertly snipping away at the ends of Sherlock’s hair.  
Army doctor? Yes. Good. Far from an idiot then, as he first suspected. Smart. Compared to anyone who wasn't him, that is. John Watson. A used-to-be army doctor with hands that can give and take life and can also give absolutely hypnotizing scalp massages. A hairdresser who didn’t bother him with useless questions about friends or family he didn’t have or try to chatter away about his life as if Sherlock were listening. He apparently gave quality haircuts as well, because when he was finished, Sherlock was actually surprised at how well he liked it.  
“What do you think?” John asked him, brushing a lose strand off of his shoulder.  
“I like it.” he said simply.  
“Ah! Good. Everyone seemed to think you were impossible to please.” he said.  
“Impossible?” Sherlock grinned, pulling on his coat “No. I just know what I like.”  
John giggled and Sherlock definitely wasn’t blushing when he flipped his collar up and added, “with my hair.”  
“Well, thank you for coming in,” John said with a smile, shaking his hand firmly. “Luna will take care of you at the front desk and if you’d like to book another appointment, she can take care of that, too.”  
Sherlock nodded and made his way to the front to pay for the best haircut he ever had. He left John a 50 pound tip and pulled out his phone and sent a text to Lestrade. “I'll take the case -SH”


	3. talk me through this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets another shampoo a week after his haircut.

Ultimately, the problem was that his hair wouldn’t grow fast enough. It had been a week since he’d had his hair cut, but he needed to go back to the salon. For a case, obviously. But he couldn’t get his hair cut again, that would be silly… He pulled up their website for a list of their services and found that he could come in just for a shampoo/scalp massage for less than the price of a haircut.  
It was tempting.  
The case he was working for Lestrade had become much more difficult than he’d imagined it to be. It had been seven days and he felt as though he was no closer to solving it than he had been on day one. There seemed to be no solution to this nearly text book kidnapping slash missing person’s case; none of the evidence made any sense together, but there seemed to be no one who could have planted it. What was the motive?  
Sherlock had a massive headache. He hadn’t slept or eaten properly since he began his investigation, and he knew he needed to regroup somehow. Solve the case. After all… cases cannot be solved without transport.  
So he caved and made an appointment for a shampoo.  
“Back already?” John greeted him with a smile, motioning for him to follow. “You know what they say about a client who books with you more than once?” he asked as they walked to his station.  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow  
“They’re a forever client,” he winked.  
Sherlock was definitely not blushing when he sat down.  
“Do you want me to use the same shampoo as before?” he asked.  
Yes please. Sherlock just answered with a monotone, “That’s fine.”  
“Alright, let’s get you squared away then.” his smile was warm.  
As John draped the cape around his shoulders and fastened it behind his neck, he asked, “have you been sleeping?”  
Sherlock furrowed his brow, “i’m sorry?”  
He rubbed the back of his neck, “Sorry, old habits i guess.”  
“I haven’t been sleeping, no.” Sherlock answered.  
“Having trouble?”  
“Of sorts.”  
John turned on the water, letting it heat up against his inner wrist a bit before directing the water to Sherlock's hairline.  
“Well what seems to be the problem? If you don’t mind my asking, I spend a fair amount of my job playing therapist.” he chuckled.  
“Mm i’m working a case and there’s something i’m missing. Something big, and I can’t see it.”  
“A case?”  
“A case, yes. I am a consulting detective”  
“I don’t think I'm familiar,” he said, rubbing small circles at Sherlock’s hairline, getting this hair fully saturated.  
“That would be because i’m the only one,” Sherlock explained “When the police don’t know what they’re doing, they ask for my help. which is nearly always.”  
“The police don’t consult amateurs,” John said  
“Exactly.” Sherlock replied.  
His mind slowed down as john put in the shampoo and began the massage. He wasn’t sure how he’d gone a full week without this. or a day. He felt so at ease, and his headache seemed to instantly dull as john’s fingers pressed patterns into his head.  
“So this case,” John asked, What has you stuck?”  
“hm? oh. i just can’t seem to figure out who could have planted the evidence. i mean the evidence must have been planted, of course. there’s something i’m missing and i can’t seem to put my finger on it.”  
“Well if you could you wouldn’t be missing it anymore” john joked, clearing his throat. “So the evidence must have been planted, talk me through it then.”  
sherlock just rambled about things even someone as sharp as john watson would likely not understand until john announced that his hair was done being rinsed. sherlock sat bolt upright, “the brother. i’m so dense, how did i not see?” he cried. he stood up and pulled his wallet from his pocket, practically throwing the money at John and running out of the salon, his hair dripping wet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case

A few phone calls to Molly later and Sherlock was filled with a new energy. His headache had been melted away by the magic of John Watson’s scalp massage, and he was revitalized and ready to go. It was the first time on this case that he felt as though he was headed in the right direction, and he felt he was on the cusp of something incredible.   
When it came time for the waiting game, the answer to all of these riddles sat in limbo until he could get the results from the lab back. He made a call to the salon and made an appointment for a week later, figuring he could wrap the case up in a day or two and could get a proper shampoo without running out unexpectedly. It was a common notion among people to reward oneself for things like this, so what harm would it be to treat himself to a shampoo after the case as a way to wind down and relax? He decided he wouldn't think any more about it, sitting on the sofa, prepared to stare at the ceiling until Molly called him back.  
\-- 

One week later, Sherlock found himself frustrated as he stood in the cold corridors of an underground warehouse. This case was dragging on for far too long, especially considering how easy it should have been to crack. But here he was getting dripped on by leaking water pipes. Why was it always underground? He hoped that his message to Lestrade had gone through before the service had cut out, but he didn’t care to move as there was a gun pointed directly at him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the man, “You’ve been caught, I’ve found you out and if you are even trying to be a remotely good criminal, you’ve probably heard of me and you know that the police are on their way, so why don’t you just save us both the trouble and put the gun down? We both know you’re not a killer. Not really. You do not have the strength to shoot me right now, not with the memory of her lifeless body on the ground so fresh in your mind.”  
“I’ll FUCKING KILL YOU,” the man roared, cocking the gun at the same moment the door opposite him slammed open.   
“DROP THAT WEAPON,” came the threatening voice.   
“Ah, Lestrade. There you are,” Sherlock said airily, “You’re late.”  
“Drop your weapon IMMEDIATELY or I will shoot you.” Lestrade demanded.   
The man dropped his arm a fraction, but Sherlock could see the debate going on in his head as if it were written in ink on his face. His arm straightened out as he fired a shot, sending Sherlock stumbling backwards onto the floor.   
Another shot rang out and Lestrade called for backup as he cuffed the man who was howling on the floor. “I’LL KILL THAT MAD BASTARD,” he shouted, kicking his legs like an overgrown toddler.   
“I suspect you would,” Sherlock said, slightly out of breath.  
“You alright, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked.  
“I’m fine, it’s just a graze. This poor excuse for a criminal is a worse shot than he is a liar.”  
“I’LL KILL YOU!” the man roared, struggling fruitlessly to get out of Lestrade’s grip.  
“Sherlock” Lestrade gave him a stern look.   
He just shrugged. It was hardly his fault that people were so stupid. 

And that stupidity had him confined to the treacherous hell of crutches. He felt terribly ridiculous. A man of his stature should not have to use crutches, it was like an obstacle course he was doomed to fail. Upon arriving home after having his leg stitched up, he sulked on the couch until he fell asleep. His post-case high was short lived as he was tired and in pain; he let himself slip into unconsciousness for a few hours. It wasn't until he woke that he realized he slept through his hair appointment. He decided to show up anyway. If John was unavailable, he could always book the next appointment while he was there.

John smiled kindly and Sherlock had the strangest pang in his chest, unsure of why someone's smile might hurt.  
“I was beginning to worry you’d found another hairdresser, you missed your appointment.” John chuckled.   
“I was too busy being shot to come get my hair cut,” Sherlock shrugged, pulling at the hair at the back of his neck. “Unfortunate really, it’s gotten unmanageably long.”   
“Shot? Are you alright?” John asked urgently.   
“Do I look dead? I’m fine,” sherlock rolled his eyes.   
“What were you doing that you got shot?  
“It’s not important. someone made the mistake of thinking they could out-smart me.”   
John just shook his head, “I’m glad you’re alright at least, christ.”  
“You’ve been shot,” Sherlock pointed out.   
“Yes. Do i even bother asking how you know?” he folded his arms.  
“You’ve got a psychosomatic limp from an injury to your shoulder, it’s not that hard to tell.”  
“It's not as obvious as you say, no one here has noticed yet” John said.   
“Of course not, they’re idiots.” he said.   
John just laughed. “Sherlock Holmes, you are something else.” he smiled.


	5. a trip to the mind palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John often visits sherlock in his mind palace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow thanks for reading, guys <3  
> I posted this chapter last night and realized i posted the not-edited version... heh.. sorry about that.   
> All fixed now, though! ~

Something else.  
John’s eyes shone with something unfamiliar when he’d say those words.  
Something. Else.  
Laying face up on the couch, Sherlock closed his eyes and retreated to his mind palace. He had been unable to sleep lately, case or not.  
Walking through rooms and corridors, he found the one he wanted and flung open the door haphazardly. He just needed a case; the day prior he'd finished one and he was already itching for another hit. However, this was worse than usual… because usually his post-case high laster more than a day. And he usually wasn’t so desperately hoping for something new this soon.   
He huffed and ran toward a filing cabinet in a room, and plopped down in the chair next to it with a stack of case files in hand and began to flip through them. in times like this, he generally dug through old cases to see if he could gather any useful information or decide on the next experiment to perform. Where was a good criminal when he needed one?  
A voice came from behind him, “How about that one?” it asked.  
Sherlock flipped back a couple pages, “This one?” he asked, not bothering to look over his shoulder.  
“Yes. That one there... seems pretty interesting,” the voice said.  
“Mm I suppose i could give it another once over. What’s it about?" he asked.  
“A married man who falls in love with another man. It was an unsolved murder that looked like the wife had done it on the surface, but she had an alibi. An undeniable one, at that. His murder was never solved.”  
“Boring.” sherlock said, “I bother neither with emotions or petty crimes of passion.” His eyes fell closed as familiar hands ran through his hair and began massaging behind his ears.  
“Take a second look,” he suggested, “You might be surprised.”  
“John, very little surprises me.”  
“Then prove me wrong,” he said, crossing his arms overs chest.  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes and picked the file out, throwing the others out of his sight and back to their intended positions. “Fine,” he snapped.  
“Good. But first,” John said, “keep your eyes closed and relax.”  
Sherlock begrudgingly agreed and kept his eyes closed as John's hands returned to his hair and took away all of the stresses and worries of the world with his fingers.  
Sherlock hummed, reveling in the feeling and toying with the idea of there being more to meets the eye on the case. He pulled out all of the pieces of the file, the scattered notes, photographs, and papers all floating above his head, just in his field of view. He arranged them and rearranged them, calling down for each piece of information individually, analyzing and reanalyzing in the span of minutes.  
John adjusted the pressure, using his nails a bit near the base of his neck, and Sherlock’s mind palace disintegrated right before his eyes. He found himself back in his sitting room, laying on the couch, breathing slightly labored.  
Damn.  
He got up quickly and made his way to the bathroom and got immediately into a shower that froze him down to his bones.  
  
He was no stranger to needing release once in awhile, but the rarity with which he experienced attraction to another human being was incredible. Sherlock Holmes hardly bothered with attraction or any sort of romance, so the physical aspect was not difficult to ignore. Was he /attracted/ to his hairdresser?

That might be an interesting hypothesis to test... 

He quickly shoved any thoughts of that nature to the back of his mind where he hoped to ignore them forever.


End file.
